The Ups and Downs of Loving an Englishman
by Mrs. Procrastination
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is the schools punk, and Alfred F. Jones is the schools jock. The two are constantly at war with one another, but in truth all Arthur wants to do is return home to England, and all Alfred wants to do is figure out why he can't stop thinking about the rebellious, yet adorable Briton. [[UsUk Rated M for cursing, bullying/abuse, and smut later on. Enjoy ]]
1. Bandages and Bruises

_**Author's Note:**_Hello! Over the summer, I did dozens, upon dozens of punk!Arthur and jock!Alfred RP's. As school started back, of course I didn't have time to do as many ;-;. Anyways, the story you are about to read is based off of one of my all-time favorite RP's I did this summer. I wrote with this lovely lady for almost the entire summer, and we got quite far in the RP. Sadly, we lost communication as school and whatnot started back. Long story short, I tried to contact her and ask for her permission to use some of her ideas for Alfie (her character), but she didn't reply. So, if you are the girl that I wrote this with, feel free to contact me if you want me to either credit you, or take it down. Either's fine, I know I didn't get to talk to you for permission and whatnot!

Anyways, I have this story roughly planned out from beginning to end, and it should be around 5-6 chapters. Even though that's not much, I do usually write roughly 15-20 pages per chapter, sooo it should still sum up to be about the same as a 20 chapter story with 5 page chapters!

_**Warnings: **_Arthur goes get bullied at school, and his father is an alcoholic/abuses him as well. Not to mention their potty mouths, and there _will _be smut later on! So yeah, this is rated M for a little bit of everything~!

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******The Ups and Downs of Loving an Englishman**

**Chapter 1:**

**Bandages and Bruises**

Ever since the day a person is born, they're raised to see their parents hugging and kissing each other lovingly, and they're used to watching Disney movies; which portrayed the concept of a happy ending. And even as a child grew up, going through elementary and middle school, they still watched cheesy chick-flicks and they looked up to those 'happily ever after' stories about celebrities that could be seen on the front of tabloids in the supermarket. And god damn, Arthur really hated that. Growing up in the heart of Manchester, England had been what most people would call 'living the dream'. Although it was a busy, overcrowded city with far too many rude old women who yelled at rebellious teenagers, Arthur had always found it scenic, and breath taking. The smell of fresh tea in the morning, the chilling weather that, by this time, wrapped around Arthur with warm and protecting arms.

But then he been shipped off to America, to live with his father. His mother had previously lost her job, qualifying their family to be one of the poorest in all of Manchester. They'd barely gotten by, Arthur, his mother, and three of his brothers all lived together in a cramped, two bedroom apartment that had no air conditioning in the summers. But still, he'd rather have to sleep on the floor than have to leave his beloved family, and go live with his father. Nonetheless, at the young age of fifteen, Arthur, packed his bags and flew over to live with a drunkard of an old man who he was _supposed _to have feelings for. But all he could ever feel was resent, and fear.

There was a reason the older man had long ago deserted his family and moved to America. He'd gone to the United States to escape a nasty debt and a gambling problem, of course that only followed him over.

At the present moment, Arthur Kirkland was walking down the halls of Jackman's High School for the Fine Arts, one of the top ranked art's schools in Florida. His head was bowed down, faded maroon backpack slung over one shoulder carelessly as he headed towards his locker. His black skinny jeans had a few tears in the knees here and there, the soft fabric hugged at his thighs and hips slightly as he walked. His dark grey shirt was sleeveless, an in depth drawing of the band album The Black Parade by My Chemical Romance on it. His black and white checkered Van's made a soft 'pit pat' on the ceramic tiling of the schools floor as he walked. Black eyeliner was drawn neatly beneath his eyes with perfection, although with the addition of a black eye painted across the fragile skin of the right side of his face, not much of the hard work could be appreciated. He had a piercing or two in each ear, nothing more than a silver stud that caught the light of the sun and reflected if it was hit right. Up his arms were dozens, upon dozens of wristbands. They were from multiple different concerts he'd snuck out to see. Maroon 5, Green Day, Mindless Self Indulgence… The list went on and on. As for his hair, it was entirely dyed a darker red color. Not a simple blond hair was showing, and he kept it that way.

Arthur finally made his way to his locker, wincing lightly as he felt a sharp pain in his stomach. No worries, he'd been hit by one of the football players on his way home yesterday, and it'd left quite an impressive bruise. The Briton brushed aside the annoying pain, unlocking his old, red locker with paint chips flaking off. There were multiple faded messy scribbling of inappropriate things on it that had been drawn in sharpie. The words 'queer' and 'faggot' had been painted onto it, although the school had done a good enough job of getting that off. Arthur honestly gave _zero _fucks about what people thought of him. He was gay, and the whole school knew it. And that certainly didn't help the fact of the football players hating him. Oh well, the Briton was a quite strong-minded person, he could handle it… Or at least, he kept telling himself that.

Shoving his backpack into his locker hastily, he pulled out his abused, ripped up sketch book. He'd only gotten into the Fine Art's school because of his drawing abilities, his mother back in England used to have Arthur get babysat by a friend of hers, an aspiring artist who taught the emerald eyed teen a lot about sketching and painting. He bit down on his split lower lip absentmindedly as he grabbed his overfilling, drawn on bag of Copic Markers, some of the best artist markers out there. After grabbing a few notebooks for his classes and a textbook, he closed his locker.

Arthur froze up suddenly as he heard joyous laughter bouncing off the walls of the hallways, and he groaned quietly. Not today, he already felt like crap from the day before….

"Well look who it is, our favorite little faggot!" Called out a nameless person, just another dumb-ass jock who couldn't count to ten without using his fingers. In haste, Arthur opened his locker once more and stored away his sketch book and (rather expensive) markers, then closed it again. He didn't care if his other stuff got torn up and stomped on, but sketching and drawing was one of the few things that kept him sane at night. "Yo! Don't ignore me when I'm talking to you, you queer." The same teen sneered, walking up and slamming his hand against the lockers next to Arthur's head. Slowly, the emerald-eyed teen turned around to look up to the (much taller) teenager, a frown spreading across his lips.

"Go drink bleach." Arthur replied in a cool, controlled tone. His eyes spared with a deeper, more malicious shade of jade as he spoke, signaling he refused to take _any _shit from them.

"Awh, well that's not very nice, is it?" The jock questioned, sneering as he leaned closer to the other. "You should talk nicer to someone who could beat you to a fuckin' pulp."

"And you should talk nicer to someone who knows you've been cheating with _three _other girls." Arthur replied.

"Why you little shit-!"

Arthur swung out a fist suddenly, able to hear his knuckles popping in protest as they slammed into the jaw of the assaulting teenager. He pulled back seconds later, holding in the pain that throbbed on the delicate skin of his hands, his artist hands, which he always took such good care of. He was terrified he'd break it or something.. What if one of those asshole jocks went too far and put his hand in a cast? He wouldn't be able to draw then!

"You'd better get the hell out of my way." Arthur growled, on defensive as he cradled his books close to his chest. The teen that had been towering over him, tumbled back and onto one of his friends. There was a collaboration of loud cursing and arguing, in which Arthur took the chance to try and sneak away.

"Woah, woah, woah, not so fast!" Chimed in another tone. That was when Arthur's eyes widened, and he truly felt a pang of fear bubbling up in the pit of his stomach. Alfred F. Jones. Oh fucking hell, he really resented the jock. He hated the way that the blue-eyed teen thought he was on top of the world, how he acted like he was god. But he really hated how hard he could hit. Not with his fists, but with his words.

Everyone else's comments were shallow, things Arthur could deal with. But for whatever reason, the American had a way of finding his weak point, and driving the nail deep into it. Whenever he put attention on what he was saying, Arthur always went home and hugged a pillow for the remainder of the night. The Brit didn't look back, knowing he'd be faced with a pair of bright, angry sapphire hues and a sneer that sent spikes and daggers down the Brit's very core. Nonetheless, he felt a hand ball up into a fist in the back of his shirt.

"No need to leave so fast, faggot." Alfred spat out, yanking the other back. Arthur tumbled with a quiet yelp, books spilling out onto the hard tiled floor as he himself fell. His bum contacted with the ground harshly as his head banged into the old, chipped lockers. That added to one of the dozens of dings in the lockers from his head. For a single, terror filled moment, Arthur's vision went black as his arms scrambled out to support himself. Slowly, his vision dotted back in place like puzzle pieces falling into sorts, and he hastily shoved himself up to his feet, despite the others trying to keep him down. He could feel a thick, hot liquid matting the back of his hair down, which he could only guess was blood. Goddammit. At least the red wouldn't stand out in his already-dyed hair.

"I said _relax, _Kirkland, enjoy your stay~" Alfred cooed, taking a step in closer to the other. To Arthur's mutual pleasure, he could hear that the guy he decked was crying quietly. Huh, what a bunch of girls.

"You'd better hurry onto class before they fail you, Alfred. I don't understand how you could have possibly gotten into such a prestigious school, but they'll kick you out soon enough once they realize you're as worthless as a bag of bloody walnuts." Arthur said in a rather calm tone, although he could already anticipate how much the punches he was sure to receive would feel. The American sneered, leaning in and holding his hand against the other's neck in a rather frightening pose, almost like he was mutely suggesting the fact he could badly injure him with a single hand.

"It's called a sports scholarship, faggot."

"Sports will only get you to the point where you've become such a dick that none of your friends want to hang out with you."

Arthur felt a knee coming into contact with his stomach before he saw it. He coughed dryly, doubling over as both of his arms flew to wrap around his body, trying to prevent further harm. Another blow was roughly delivered to his jaw before he had a second to think, and he sunk to the floor as his head banged up against the lockers once more. Arthur grimaced at the bitter, iron-like taste on his tongue, which he'd bitten down onto quite roughly. Oh shit. He could feel that he'd bitten down on the small piercing on the tip of his tongue. Fuck fuck fuck fucking shit that hurt. He fell to the floor, books long past scattered around him on the ground. Some of Alfred's teammates were having fun tearing up the pages and scattering them around the halls. Sucking on his injured tongue, he turned his head to look back up at Alfred, who no sooner brought a foot down roughly on the Brit's hand, which was sprawled on the tiled floors to keep himself upright.

The Brit yelped in pain, hearing a soft cracking sound of the bone as he tried to yank his hand back, to no avail. "Shit! Get off Jones!" He shouted, adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins. His hand! His drawing hand! The Brit tugged once more, finally freeing the only thing that kept him in this school away from the jock. Quickly, he cradled the injuries close to his chest, sparing a glare up to the other that could of killed him.

Alfred opened his mouth to speak, then paused as one of his teammates tapped him on the shoulder. He frowned, mumbling something under his breath. Finally, the American turned back to face Arthur, looking just as sinister as he had a moment ago. "Well, we can't have another tardy on our record, so we'll see ya around, cock sucker~" The American cooed, and with one last brutal kick to the Brit's thigh, he walked off with his friends.

Arthur did nothing to protest the kick, almost teary eyed as he frantically looked down at his hands. It appeared to be his pointer, and middle finger that were in the most pain. He touched one, wincing and mumbling some string of foul curses under his breath. Trying to bend them, he cried out quietly before quickly deciding it was a bad idea. He finally forced himself to stand up, slowly collecting his ruined books with one hand, tossing all of them back into his locker. He glanced to make sure his sketch pad and markers were still there, before limping to the bathroom. He'd grabbed his backpack on the way, slinging it over his shoulder.

His jaw hurt, his stomach hurt, his mouth hurt, his thigh hurt… But his hand, that was the only thing he gave a shit about. It didn't matter if he wouldn't be able to walk without a limp for the next month, but he _needed _to be able to draw, it was his own personal coping mechanism. Arthur nearly slammed the door to the bathroom as he entered, his bad hand hung limply at his side as the other slid along the wall to help keep himself alright. This was not okay, this was one thing in life that was not okay.

Arthur, with a shaky hand, dropped his backpack onto the sink. He unzipped the smallest pouch, pulling out a large roll of 1/2 inch wide cloth. He grabbed the medical tape as well, having bought all the supplies he could of possibly needed for bandaging wounds. Thinking back to an article he read, he tried to think about how to fix fingers. He knew that with his father, there was no way in hell the man would pay for a trip to the doctors, he'd probably end up making it worse if the Brit complained. With a deep breath, he grabbed the two injured fingers with his other hand, and after a moment of hesitating, he gave the fingers a rough, counterclockwise yank.

A loud, pain filled shout left his lips, followed by several profanities and random sentences strung together about how much he hated Alfred Fucking Jones. Still grimacing and cursing with every touch, he began to tightly wrap the cloth around the two fingers. Making sure they were outstretched and strait, he finally taped the cloth in place to help it act as a splint. For a moment he just stood there, pain coursing through his veins as he held his hand still. Emerald hues were closed tightly, his good hand gripping onto the counter to keep himself up, swaying on his feet slightly. After a moment his vision cleared and he looked up to the mirror.

His eyes were not close to what people would call 'dead' or 'devoid of life'. They were fiery, angry, in agony, and frightened. But at least there was still emotion in them, Arthur feared the day when he'd look in the mirror and see the ghost of a man who'd lost all hope for the world. But with the track he was on, he didn't doubt he'd be seeing that sooner or later.

Bandaging the other wounds weren't too hard, he'd learnt just how to handle all of them. All he could do with bruises was run cold water over it. As for his bleeding head, he made sure to clean the blood out of his hair the best he could, then apply pressure with bandages until the bleeding stopped completely. He wrapped bandages around his head, just to be safe. Once most of the wounds were taken care of, he stuck his tongue out and looked in the mirror. He winced at the sight of blood drying between his teeth, and he quickly leaned down to rinse his mouth out with the tap water that flowed from the faucet. After a moment, he looked back up. At least he hadn't bitten too hard, and the stud on his tongue seemed to be fine.

"Okay Kirkland… You're okay.." Arthur whispered, exhaling slowly and letting his body relax for a minute. "Just go back to class… It'll be the weekend before you know it…" After the small speech to himself, he collected his things and cleaned up the bloody bandages, glancing in the mirror. Arthur Kirkland, covered in bandages and bruises, was proud to say he still stood here today. After running a hand through his blood red (literally) dyed hair, and prodding at the forming bruise on his jaw (the black eye he had was colliding with the new injury), he headed out of the restroom. From the kick to his thigh, he limped slightly as he walked, yet Arthur held his head high.

After gathering up his non-destroyed books, he headed on to class, sparing his Spanish teacher a look that the man knew all too well. He was let into the classroom without a commotion, slumping down in the back seat and laying his head on the desk. He didn't know why he bothered to come, usually he ended up skipping and hanging out on the roof. But today, he didn't want to risk more injuries.

Most bullies had a theory, that their victims went home to a loving and caring family who was there to listen to their problems. They believed that, hey, what does it matter if we call this kid shit? He'll go talk it out with his mum, right? Well, that certainly wasn't the case for the punk. His father was the one person on the face of the planet who he _wouldn't _go to when it came to problems. His father only caused more problems.

Arthur sluggishly made his way home after school that day, hugging his backpack to his chest, having had to protect it from harm as he'd passed a few of the jock-fuckhead's just a while back. It had his markers and sketch book in it, he couldn't risk losing that. To his great displeasure, he'd discovered that drawing with his injured hand was impossible, it came out a messed up jumble of lines and crap. During fourth period, however, he'd Googled how long it took fingers to heal. Supposedly, it'd be safe to take off his homemade casts in a little over three weeks… Just three weeks, you can do it, Kirkland. Or at least, that's what he told himself.

The Brit slowly walked through the overgrown, dying grass of his front lawn. It crinkled and snapped beneath his feet quietly as he approached his 'home'. To Arthur, it was just a house; but _never _a place he could consider as home for himself. The Brit silently slipped in through the front door, having realized that his father was most likely at work, or buying booze.

Up the stairs and down the hall, the Brit quickly closed and locked his door behind him. Even though you would of thought with a lazy-ass father, they would of lived in a bad home; it was quite the opposite. Their house was a two story, brick, Italian styled home. They lived in a neighborhood that had five sections, each had a different style of housing from different countries. It was pretty neat, he had to admit.

Arthur quickly threw his backpack down near the bed, stepping out of his Vans and sighing, gently running a hand through his hair until the bandage stopped him from going any further. He next crawled beneath the sheets of his large, four poster bed. Up on his walls (which were painted a dark blue), were dozens upon dozens of posters of bands. Not to mention some of his best artwork had been put through a copying machine (he always kept the originals safe) and hung up on his walls. Arthur pulled the sheets over his head slowly, wincing at every movement he made. He couldn't budge his legs without his thigh hurting, he couldn't move any part of his face without being in some extreme pain.

Slowly, he hit the application for Facebook on his old, first generation iPhone.

'Hey' He typed slowly, after going to the chat box for someone he considered to be his only friend, Gilbert. To make a long story short, when Arthur had first moved to America near the end of the summer, Gilbert had been visiting his grandparents, who lived in the German styled homes just a ways away. They'd had a thing. That was about it. Two weeks of making out under an old willow tree in a park nearby, two weeks of hugging each other and watching horror movies and laughing. Two weeks of sweet, caring words to the other, something that to this day, Arthur had to think about to remind himself that he was a human being, and not some piece of trash. For a while, he waited for a response, smiling weakly as his phone buzzed.

'Arthur! Hey, I haven't talked to you in forever bro!' Came in the reply, and in perfect grammar too. And thank god for that, Arthur couldn't stand the 'text typing'.

'I know, it's been too long! How're you?' Arthur typed in reply, sighing. He wished he and Gilbert would of found a way to keep their relationship going, but even as the older, white haired teen who he'd loved earlier left, they'd both known it was just a summer fling; nothing serious. But oh, it'd been nice to have someone to care for him.

'I've been great bro! Actually, I have something to tell you!'

'What is it?'

'I got a boyfriend! His name is Vlad, he's great!'

Arthur looked at the picture attached, sighing softly. On the left was Gilbert; tall, snow white hair and gorgeous, alluring ruby eyes. He had the smile spread across his lips, as always, pearly white teeth shining. For half a moment, Arthur remembered what it felt to run his tongue along those teeth… And on the right was another boy, someone he hadn't seem before. He was dressed as if he was from a time in the past, with a small top hat sitting atop his head. And just like Gilbert, he had a pair of piercing, garnet eyes. Arthur was a bit surprised by this, he'd thought that his old lover's eyes were one of a kind. But oh well… They looked happy together, and that was something he was happy to see. Gilbert had his arm around the other, and the teen with the one, vampire-like tooth was curled up beneath his arm.

'Arthur…? Anyways, his full name is Vladimir! He's great!' Gilbert sent, sending lots of exclamation marks and emoticons to show his happiness.

'That's great! I'm happy to hear it!' He wasn't… Not truthfully, he was envious of Vlad to the tenth degree, but at the same time, he knew it was selfish to not be happy for his one, and only friend.

Arthur and Gilbert talked for a good portion of the night, about nothing in particular. They Skyped near the end, Arthur hadn't realized how beat up he looked until Gilbert practically had a panic attack over it. Nonetheless, he got to meed Vladimir, and then went off to bed.

This day really wasn't in his favor.

The rest of his week wasn't any better. He hadn't gotten bullied physically, at least, but the name calling was getting to be a bit much. Then again, twice in one day, a girl had stuck up for him against the jocks. Not that he couldn't take care of himself, but he usually just remained silent and walked by them if it was at all possible. It was slightly ironic, most of the football team liked to beat him up because their girlfriends absolutely _fawned _over Arthur. Over his accent, his smile, his 'Britishness', as they put it. Not that he really minded.

But then came Thursday. He'd skipped out of his math class in favor of sleeping up on the roof. It was a nice enough day out, the sun was covered by a thin layer of clouds, which casted a rather pleasant shadow down over his body. The bruises he had were well on their way to healing, but his fingers still hurt every time he tried to move them.

Arthur had been awoken by a sudden start, rather, someone slamming their foot down on his stomach. He'd woken up not able to breathe, coughing and gagging, rolling over onto his stomach to try and prevent further harm. He heard voiced, daunting laughs and puns about him being a useless human being. There was absolutely no time to think, all he could do was try and scramble away from whoever was above him. More kicks and hits to his side and back were received, but he finally gave in when someone pinned him against the wall, their hand gripping against his throat. He was bruised and bloodied, having numerous cuts on his cheeks and body from getting pressed into the cement on the roof's floor. But none of that compared to the immediate panic he felt when he realized the fucking idiot was blocking off his air supply.

He tried to gasp, to make a noise that signaled this _really _might kill him. "St-sto-stop it!" Curse his one hand for being useless, all it could do was grip at the ground and try to yank free. His other hand was clawing at the one holding his neck.

"Hey, bro… You might need to stop, we don't want a murder on our hands…" A nameless jock grumbled, looking around to see if their leader, Alfred, was around. The American always had a good sense of when to stop.

"Ah c'mon, he's fine… Just being a pussy.." The one choking Arthur replied with a little grin, applying even more pressure on his neck. Tears beaded up in the Brit's eyes, struggling and kicking weakly against the other, black dotting his vision at this point. His eyes finally slid closed, just as he felt the pressure be released. Without having the energy to open his eyes, he fell onto his knees, kneeling over the floor as he coughed violently, shaking and shivering. Arthur kept his eyes closed tightly, feeling the salty liquid brimming over the edges, threatening to ruin his eyeliner. Hr heard a voice, someone shouting and chasing everyone off, before he felt a hand on his shoulder.

It wasn't necessarily a kind, gentle hand. Rather one that was forcing him to look up, the fingers slipping beneath his chin and roughly guiding his head. Emerald eyes blinked open slowly, finding that the sun (which was peeking out from the clouds), was far too bright for his liking. For a moment, he was certain his eyes had deceived him, because there was no way the person who knelt in front of him was really there.

"A-Alf-Alfred?" Arthur choked out, his good hand grasping at his neck gently, wincing at the throbbing pain building up in the skin. His breathing was ragged, but at least he was breathing. The Brit glanced over the jocks shoulder, seeing that all the others were scrambling off hastily. The jock didn't look necessarily happy that he had to just claw his friends off of the punk, at the same time it was obvious he tried to force something resembling a smile on his face.

"I-… Don't except my help again, faggot." The American looked as if he had been about to say something, but cut himself off, his exterior hardening as he spat out the words. Arthur could only nod numbly, before the American was standing up and racing off, down the stairs that led to the roof as he followed after his friends.

Arthur was left on the rooftop alone, he finally resorted to crawling over to his backpack and using it as a pillow. He hid his face under his arm, shaking slightly as tears slid down his cheeks. He bit down on his lower lip, which was cracked and bleeding slightly. For a while he didn't move an inch, staying curled up on the cold, hard cement of the roof. There were little pebbles embedding themselves in whatever inch of flesh they could find, although he paid them no mind. Finally, he started to move as rain poured down from the sky. It started up in an instant, thunder booming loudly as buckets upon buckets drenched Arthur. The Brit cursed as he clumsily stood up, and cowered under the safety of the high school.

He ignored the fact he should be in class, and after leaving his sketch book in his locker (he didn't want it to get ruined), he took off for home. Long ago, Arthur had discovered a few ways to easily escape the school without getting caught, and he used the route of climbing out of an abandoned classroom's window. It was on the first level, so it was only a five or so foot drop down to the ground. Still, every step hurt worse than he could of imagined, not to mention he was still gasping for breath slightly.

Slowly, he made his way back to his house, getting soaked by the rain as he limped.

Arthur was at a loss for how he managed to pull himself out of bed the next morning. It'd taken several moments of looking through his phone at old photos of he and Gilbert, before he'd managed to throw on a Piece the Veil t-shirt and a pair of black skinny jeans. As for his usual makeup, he didn't bother. The black eye he had, and the other assorted bruises and cuts, would clearly block out any eyeliner he could put on. The only thing he did do, was coat several layers of foundation on his face and neck. He honest to god hated the stuff, but he couldn't go around with thick, finger-like bruises on his neck. People would get suspicious.

Slowly, the red-haired punk stepped down the stairs, his injured hand still swinging uselessly at his side, the bandages no longer wrapped around his head. "…Good morning." Came a voice from the kitchen table. Arthur froze instantly, tentatively turning his head to look at the man sitting down, coffee in one hand, the newspaper in the other.

"Good morning, sir." He replied calmly, quietly, as he entered the kitchen. No use to run now, he had a good hour before school began, he knew his father knew that.

"Make me breakfast." It wasn't a question, rather a demand. Arthur nodded numbly, glancing down to his useless hand, before walking over to the stove. The Brit had used to be an absolutely dreadful cook, and to this day he wasn't exactly what you'd call an amazing one… But after years of his father yelling, and hitting him for burning food, Arthur had learned a few things about something as simple as scrambled eggs and bacon. He walked throughout the kitchen silently, limping slightly as he carried the pan, eggs, and bacon in one hand. Usually, he would of tried to somehow use his other to assist in the matter of making breakfast, but whenever he tried to bend, or move it, pain shot up his arm like there was no tomorrow. Silently, he began to cook, turning on the stove as he went.

There was a good amount of fear coursing through his veins, something he didn't usually feel when around any of the jocks at school. Usually he just felt hate with them, but his father… This man could seriously hurt him, and get away with it; he knew Arthur had nowhere to turn to for help.

Thankfully, breakfast went without an issue. As quickly as possible, Arthur was speeding out the front door of his house and down the street, thankful that the rain had stopped earlier in the night. His Vans were soaked by the time he got to school from all the puddles he'd stepped in, and he sighed as he pushed open the large and heavy door of the school with his shoulder. In the school he went, trying to avoid bumping into people. He kept his gaze on the ground, blood-red hair falling down in front of his eyes. Although he wore a blank expression, pain shot up his leg with every step, and breathing brought agony to his neck.

A few teens thought it would be funny to shove him against lockers, but instead of replying with venomous words and insults, he'd just spared them an agitated look before walking on. Arthur made it through most of the day without incident, he narrowly avoided the football team in the hallways on the way to his second period, though.

Last period of the day, Science.. Right, he could handle this, no big deal… Alfred was in the class as well, sitting in the back. He currently had his tongue down his girlfriends throat, the two locked in each other's arms as they did things Arthur would say were _definitely _not school appropriate. He quietly took a seat, running his good hand through his hair as he pulled out his notebook. His book had been destroyed earlier on in the week, so he'd have to use one of the schools crappy copies. The bell soon rung, and the American's girlfriend went to sit in the front of the class, separating them a good ways. Arthur, on the other hand, was stuck right in front of the jock, who didn't look too happy that he hadn't got a chance to explore the blond he'd been making out with even more.

Their teacher was a lazy, older woman. All she ever gave was bookwork and assignments that required hours upon hours of going to the library for research. After a moment, she seemed to realize the bell rung and rose up to her feet slowly. "Good morn'n class…" She mumbled, pulling her thick, rather horrendous wool shawl closer around her shoulders. "Today you'll be working together with a partner. I'll be giving you five elements, and it's your job to determine which ones chemically bond based off of the number of valence electrons are in each one. Mind you, you'll have to figure out what they are first, so you'll have to preform a series of tests on them." Everyone in the class groaned, knowing it would be a tediously long task. They'd have to light the bloody things on fire, dump them in water, smash them up and see how long it takes for them to evaporate.. Crap like that. "Go find a partner, everyone."

Alfred immediately looked over to his (current) girlfriend, eyes wide and shining as if he expected a little more than for them to partner up. But the blond had already started squealing about the new One Direction release to one of her friends, it was obvious they'd already paired together. The jock looked around for someone else, but it seemed while he'd been staring at the back of his girlfriends head in class, everyone had been making silent eye contact with one another as if saying 'you are my partner and you get no choice'. Finally, his eyes landed on a head of red hair… Shit. There had to be someone else! The American looked around, seeing he and Arthur were the only ones not already at the lab stations in the back of the room. Fuckidy fuck.

"Yo… You got a partner already?" He questioned quietly as he approached the punk, running a hand through his hair irritably. Arthur seemed to jump like he'd been hit, swinging his head around to look to who was talking to him. Usually the teacher just let him work alone on things like this, and that was what he planned to do…

"…No." Arthur replied after hesitating for a moment, rising up to his feet. He kept his bad hand hidden away in the grey, Green Day hoodie he'd slipped on upon entering the class. His other hand was trying to grab all his things and shove them into his bag. For a moment, the American's eyes wandered over the other, noticing the odd lack of bruises and cuts on his face. At least, until he saw the line on the side of Arthur's face where he'd stopped putting the concealer on. And for a fraction of a second, he felt pity for the injured teen.

Without speaking another word on the topic, Alfred and Arthur made their way back to one of the lab tables, setting down their things quietly on the floor as the teacher came around, handing out elements. Every time the American attempted to speak to his partner, he realized how Arthur would flinch away slightly, and how he _obviously _didn't want to talk to him. The blue-eyed teen finally gave up on trying (even though he was mostly trying to insult the other), and began to chop up one of the little blocks of element his teacher had given out.

They managed to not talk to each other for half of the class, both of them silently did one thing or another and took turns writing down their results on the given paper for the answers. Arthur didn't look well, Alfred realized. Maybe it was the concealer, but he looked paler than normal, and whenever he took a step or moved at all, it was obvious the pain that flashed through his eyes. In all honesty, (even though Alfred wouldn't admit it), he thought Arthur was very.. brave, to put up with being tortured every day. And yet he still stood here, throwing a dirty glance at Alfred whenever he sneered out an insult.

The Brit was lost in thought as he turned on the flame to the burner, biting down on his split lip slightly as he worked. On one hand, he wanted to deck Alfred, just for all the confused emotions he was causing. Why would he take joy in beating the living shit out of him for three years, but then suddenly turn around and save his ass? That made absolutely no sense! But on the other hand, he kinda wanted to thank him.

"Um…" Arthur cleared his throat, frowning slightly as he turned his head to look up to the other. Emerald eyes scanned over the curve of his jaw, the way his lips were tightened to form a thin line. The way the sun from the windows hit the frame of his glasses and reflected was rather… intimidating? More like attractive.

The American turned to face Arthur as soon as he heard the noise, features twisting into a frown immediately. "What?" He questioned, setting down the tools he was using to break up the little element block. Arthur paused, realizing what he was about to say sounded _way _too nice to be coming from his own mouth. He didn't want to feel indebted to Alfred forever, though.

"Uh… Just-… Thanks, for on the roof yesterday…" Arthur finally managed to spit out, trying to spare a somewhat timid smile before he gave up on the whole 'being nice' thing and went back to working. He doubted Alfred would care, because whatever took over his brain yesterday, wasn't doing so today. Absentmindedly, his good hand went up to rub at his sore throat, wincing as he pressed against the bruised, tender flesh of his neck.

"Yeah, whatever." Came the quick, snappy response from Alfred, who only turned back to continue working. "… I-I don't plan on doing it again, faggot! So don't get used to it! They were just going too far…" He grumbled after a moment, feeling the need to defend himself. Alfred himself looked rather flustered after speaking, and he couldn't figure out why the word 'faggot' tasted so foul on his tongue. As if he suddenly didn't want to call the other that!

Arthur nodded quickly, keeping his eyes trained on the work in front of him. His writing, which was usually neat and perfect, was slightly sloppier than Alfred's now, considering that his writing hand was out of commission. He'd learned long ago how to use his left hand _slightly_, but it was still rather poor compared to his normal, calligraphy type handwriting. "Right, right… I know.." He said in response, sighing quietly. "Just… Thanks."

The air was tense between them, neither saying anything for the longest time. Finally, Alfred spoke up."You probably think I'm the most awful being out there… But really… I'm not." He shook his head "But.. I'll punch ya more if you continue screaming about how you like other dudes everywhere!" He said it, but there was a playful smile on his lips and the whole line had a humorous note to it. Arthur flinched away with the threat of being hit, even though it was obvious that Alfred seemed more relaxed. Now _that _was what scared him. He was used to people coming up with fists held up, ready to hit him. But when a man walked forward with his hands in his pockets and an innocent smile… _That _was when to panic. '_You're not the most awful person out there.. My father is.' _The Brit thought as he spared the other a weary glance from his place a few feet away. It was true that he didn't hide the fact he was gay, why should he!? In Britain, being gay wasn't bad at all! It was like wearing a pair of brightly colored pants. Sure, you may get some odd looks, but most of the people would think it was pretty cool!

"Look…" At last, Alfred set down the element he was messing with and turned to face the other. "If I treat you a can of coke and a slice of pizza, will you just stop from dashing away from me each time I'm joking around?" Arthur ran a hand through his hair, sighing lightly. _'Oh yes, because you can make three years of beating the shit out of me immediately go away with an offer of your greasy American food.' _Arthur thought sarcastically, glad that he'd managed to keep that to himself. Kindness could only go so far.

"Er… Sure." He mumbled quietly, "But why are you bothering? Don't you have something more important to do?" His tone was a mix of annoyance, and pure confusion. Why was Alfred even bothering with trying to be nice? Maybe because he'd gotten tired of screwing around with the other?

Alfred seemed a bit taken aback by the question, and he frowned. "Look, don't bother comin' along if ya don't want to, I was just offering… Jeez.." The blue-eyed teen's shoulders hunched slightly as he went back to the experiment.

"T-that's not what I said… I'll go, I was just wondering…" Arthur mused, wishing he could just curse the other out and things could go back to normal. This was weird.

"Okay then. We'll go after we get outa here." Alfred declared, and that was that.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **_I got really frustrated with this chapter, I don't know if y'all did! . I feel like it was slightly rushed, even though I had a few time skips in there and whatnot, it seemed too… compacted! Anyways, please do comment! I had an older FF account but I got rid of it, because most of the stories on there were written when I was like, 12, and they really sucked! XD If you feel the need to flame, then you can, (I'm probably the only person to say this), but let me yell right back. I've gotten comments in the past about how a character was rude, or ungrateful. Even though you're not critiquing me directly, you have to understand I live, sleep, and eat Hetalia, so insulting a character that I put A LOT OF EFFORT INTO can and _will _piss me off.

Anyways, PLEASE review, review's are my love~!


	2. Family Problems and Confused Feelings

**_Author's Note:_**Hello again! I'm sorry for taking a while to get this newest chapter updated, but with school (and all of the Christmas presents I'm writing for friends), I haven't had that much time to sit down and write this. This chapter's kind of a filler/helping to set up things for later on in the story, so nothing _too _big happens in it. Anyways, I'd like to let you know that like I said earlier, I have 20+ Christmas gifts to write, so while you'll be seeing I'm posting stories (if you've favorited me as an Author, which I'd _really _appreciate!) I won't be posting more chapters on this, unless I get done early on all the others.

I would like to thank you all for reading this, and as always if you really like it I would _really _appreciate a comment, or even a like or favorite on this story! Alfie and Artie will get together more soon, so I'm sure that within the next chapter or so, they'll start being their adorable little selvessss!

And as always... **_Warnings:_**This contains Arthur's father being a dickweed and potty mouthes (both the characters and mine). Also, there will be gorgeous smut later on~ I promise you this~

**Chapter 2:**

**Family Problems and Confused Feelings**

Arthur hadn't the slightest idea why in the world he'd agreed to go out to get pizza with Alfred. It wasn't like anything special had happened. They'd gone to get food, had to pretend to be having a yelling match halfway there so Alfred's teammates wouldn't get suspicious. And once they'd gotten food, they'd sat as far away as they could. Alfred seemed to attempt to create conversation, but the fact that he liked more mellow country music, and Arthur liked screamo; did not mix. Nor did the fact that every time Alfred brought up girls, Arthur winced and dazed off. It wasn't that he disliked girls, necessarily but… Look at it this way. Men, to him, were the finest, sweetest, most delicious food in the world. Created by the best chef, spent time on; hot as fuck. And girls were like that grilled cheese your older sibling made you. With the slightly burnt cheese and the bread that smelled like smoke. If he got hungry enough, he'd eat both. But when it came down to it, of course he'd choose the finely made meal.

So yeah, to say that Arthur deeply, _deeply _regretted going with the American would be an understatement. It totally wasn't worth his father yelling his head off for him being late. Even when they tried to talk about the best ice cream, for gods sakes. 'Chocolate', 'no fucking way, you British freak, peanut butter', 'go to hell, American slob, it's _chocolate'. _All in all, Arthur had finally made it through the day and gotten home. After sleeping and recuperating slowly, the Brit headed out for school the next morning. His bruises were slow to heal, the skin turning a deep, purplish black color that was almost foul to look at. His drawing hand still had the two fingers that were in his splint, and they still hurt as badly as before. Arthur had _really _wanted to stay in bed that day, he had a feeling it'd be a total shit week.

Needless to say, once he was at school he lost all will to participate in class, and ended up sleeping straight through first period. He sat in the back of his class, and his Algebra teacher had long ago given up on trying to get him to pay attention. He managed to pass by learning the courses on his phone late at night, and turning in the worksheets and homework a day or two after it was due. By no standards was he passing with flying colors, but at least he wasn't failing. The Brit awoke by the sound of the bell wailing throughout the classroom, he cursed quietly and with his one good hand, he shoved all of his stuff back into his bag. Slinging it over his shoulder, he exited the room before the teacher could stop and lecture him on his hour-long nap.

The day seemed to crawl by, class by class he fell into sleep again and again, and at lunch he simply hid away in the library. His father didn't want him to get a job, and without a job he got no money for food. But all in all, it was an okay day. Then he got home, and his fairly okay mood vanished.

Now, it was a huge understatement to say that Arthur's father was a whore. Although the Brit could never think anything about his father, he knew that technically the man wasn't what some would consider unattractive. He was like one of those movie stars, the ones that were forty-five but still pulling off an attractive look. He wasn't fat or overweight necessarily, and he had Arthur's eyes, although they'd dulled down a bit to an olive-green. His smile was like his sons as well, if anyone ever got to see Arthur's. He had dimples, and their eyes seemed to light up when they were truly happy. Sometimes Arthur was disgusted at how alike they could be. Needless to say, the older man often had women over he'd picked up from bars, parks, restaurants, wherever he could get them.

Arriving home from school just on time, Arthur was just about to make a bolt for the safety of his cold, cobweb infested room when he heard a laugh. But not his father's throaty, husky laugh; but a younger woman's. Despite his dislike for his father, curiosity took over and he found himself sneaking through the house, dropping his backpack at the base of the stairs. Curious, emerald eyes peeked from around the curve in the hallway. He sighed quietly to himself as he saw exactly what he speculated he'd see.

"Arthur! Get in here." The older man called, and Arthur could tell he was straining to keep a happy, healthy tone with his son. Nonetheless, he shivered and stepped out from his hiding place, now standing in the doorway of the living room. Now that he wasn't sneaking a glance from the shadows, he could tell the woman his dad had met was indeed, rather attractive. She couldn't be a day over thirty-five, and her golden blond hair was tumbling down in messy yet attractive curls all the way down to the small of her back. Her eyes were a gorgeous endless sea, something Arthur knew his father had probably flirted with her about to get her attention.

"Yes?" Arthur asked after a moment of considering what he said, raising an eyebrow than pretending to notice the women. "Oh, hello ma'am." Arthur immediately said, sparing an innocent little smile that most people couldn't pull off, especially considering all of the black he was wearing that made him look scarily like a rebellious delinquent. He knew that his father went through women like gas stations do condoms, but he knew to be nice so his father couldn't blame him for her leaving him later on.

"Hello~! It's nice to meet you," She immediately said with the kindest, sweetest of smiles. Arthur immediately felt enveloped in some form of comfort, what most would call a mother's touch. "I've heart a bit about you, you're Arthur, right?"

"Yes ma'am, it's nice to meet you as well…" The emerald eyed teen replied quietly, glancing to his father. The man, for once, was looking over to the woman who sat opposite him, eyes wandering slightly. Arthur resisted the urge to retch at the sight, knowing the man simply enjoyed her for her physical attributes. And what a shame, what a wonderful seeming woman she was…

"You can call me whatever you'd like dear, my name's Cynthia." She said in a chipper tone, standing up to hold out a hand to him. He reached out, shaking it before taking a step back, towards the steps.

"Alright, well," Arthur spared a somewhat forced smile, the small piercing on the tip of his tongue noticeable for half a second before the smile faded. "I've got homework to be doing…" The Brit made it to the steps, still able to see the woman smiling sweetly. "Again, nice to meet you!" He was soon upstairs, in the safety of his room, locked away as he threw on a Green Day album and let to the words of the lead singer bounce around in his head. He sighed, flopping down onto the bed and wincing as he accidentally fell wrong. Well, there wasn't actually a right way to fall, there was just pain in every step he took. The Brit lay on his side, curled up as he brought his hand to his face to look at. The fingers were bruised, taking their goddamn time to heal. Letting his hand fall against the sheets, Arthur frowned lightly, hating the person he was related to before slowly, the days events drained him and he fell into sleep.

* * *

Arthur was pleasantly surprised to find that the rest of his week hadn't gone too badly. One more half-assed beating when he'd run into one of the football players on his way home from school, but the overweight jocks hits were soft, not even hard enough to leave a mark. In addition, the wounds on most of his torso and legs weren't as bad as they used to be, it no longer hurt to _very slowly _lay down and sleep on his stomach. It was an annoying thing, to see his father continuously flirting with the woman- Cynthia- who just kept coming back. Arthur wondered how in the world she hadn't yet realized that a lowly, whorish scumbag he was. And yes, that was a rough accusation to make, but Arthur had personally caught his father cheating on more than three women at a time.

Finally, Friday night rolled around and Arthur was graced-or sentenced- with the knowledge that Cynthia was bringing her son over for a 'family dinner'. It was almost funny, because Arthur knew his father was way in over his head with the blond woman. 'Family dinner' sounded like something you did to break the news about your dog dying, or some shit. Around 8:30 at night, Arthur ascended from his room, making no sound as he hopped down the steps. He was stopped at the last one by his father, who looked surprisingly, nicer than usual. He'd put on a a collared shirt and black slacks, and overdosed his hair with gel.

"Now you listen here," The older man said in a stern tone, shaking his finger in front of the teenager's face, "you're not to screw this up, in _any _way, do you hear me boy? No talking about your 'queerness' or any of those delinquent friends of yours- oh excuse me, you don't have to worry about them; they don't exist."

Ouch. Arthur winced at his words alone, jaw tightening as he slowly took a step backwards, up the steps as his eyes narrowed at the man. That was just uncalled for. "I won't, sir." The dyed-red head replied calmly.

"Apparently her son's some work of art, football player'n all. I don't want you so much as talking to him unless he talks to you first, do you hear me?"

"Yessir."

"And I don't want you dressed like some idiot, go change."

"Yessir."

"And-"

"James, honey, the stew's almost ready!" Came an excited sounding feminine voice from the kitchen. Arthur's father stopped his quiet lecturing, turning around to look in the general direction of the doorway.

"Be right there! One moment doll!" He replied, most of his accent from Britain gone, although the dialogue that accompanied it hadn't. James, as Arthur had almost forgotten was his father's name, turned back to face Arthur. Before he could speak once more, Arthur did the talking.

"You know sir, I think it's as shallow as shit to do what you're doing. She seems like a nice lady, just do her a favor and leave her be so she won't have wasted her time on you." Arthur was up the steps once more before his father could even react, closing the door quietly and locking it with a shaky sigh. He knew he had a minute or two before he had to go down there, hopefully that was enough for James to think through the fact it wasn't smart to start a fight right when he heard the doorbell ring; signaling that Cynthia's son had arrived.

Arthur exhaled shakily, looking around his room. The walls were a dark blue color, almost black from the normal person's eye. But to an artist, even the slightest change meant it was nothing near the color of black, which in purity was a gorgeous and very strong color. The walls were mostly covered in posters of bands, a few of his drawings here and there, duct taped up. Even his first few report cards, the ones where he'd still cared about grades. Then his eyes landed on his outfit, and he sighed. Ripped up black jeans and a Pierce the Veil sleeveless shirt were in retrospect-not the best thing for this so-called family dinner.

He quickly changed into a slightly more appropriate pair of black jeans, which hung looser and if one didn't look too closely, they _might _resemble black slacks. He slipped on a black collared shirt, buttoning it up all the way and making sure that the fading bruises were hidden beneath it on his neck. Arthur glanced in the mirror doubtfully, knowing the bruises on his face were still a light tinge of purple. If one loosed closely enough, they'd see them. Then again, who cared? Who even cared about the bruises? Plus, he could hear his father calling him down, saying something about him holding them all up. Sighing lightly, he ran a comb through his blood-red hair, before padding down the steps and past his father, straight into the kitchen. Arthur could feel a knot forming deep in the pit of his stomach as he did so, shoulders tensing as if he was expecting to get hit. But no fists swung his way; at least not physically.

In his kitchen stood Alfred F. Jones. Chipper as always, he was talking to Cynthia, chatting away with the happiest and sweetest of expressions on his face. His eyes were just like the sea, Arthur realized with a little shock they resembled his mother strongly. Arthur stood in the doorway shell-shocked, just as Alfred looked over. Their gazes met, and by the absolutely horrified look that slipped onto Alfred's face soon after seeing the Brit, it was obvious neither of them had expected this. Alfred's jaw dropped slightly, one eyebrow shooting upwards, the other creasing in a confused and all over annoyed look.

Cynthia seemed not to notice the two's glaring, as she pranced over to Arthur and smiled, doing a motherly motion and pressing an innocent kiss to his forehead. "Alfred, this is James' son! Arthur, this is my boy, Alfred." She did the introducing, although they were hardly strangers.

Alfred was the first to speak. He broke the glaring competition between the two of them, regaining his composure and looking at the woman he strongly resembled. "Arthur and I go to school together, isn't that right, _Artie_?"

Arthur nearly wretched at the nickname, his expression turning from that of shock to one of disgust, before he quickly changed it to a calm, sedated one. "Yes, _Alfie _and I have several of our classes together." He replied, laying on the nickname like it was a slap to the head. Their words were like daggers slicing through the tense room, yet Alfred's mother remained oblivious as she only smiled.

"Oh that's wonderful! What cute little pet names for each other~" She replied in a singsong voice, before stepping over a few feet to pull the stew off of the burner. Alfred's smile-obviously fake- died the second she turned away, his expression souring as he looked over to Arthur, taking a step closer to him.

"My mom's dating _your _dad? Gross…" The honey blond whispered in a sour tone.

"Agreed." The punk replied quite simply, avoiding any and all eye contact as his father came in, mumbling something to him about setting the tables. He hurried to do as he was told, laying out place mats and whatnot. Alfred was glaring daggers into the Brit's back the whole time, trying to trip him up once or twice. It seemed their earlier meeting to get food had done little to nothing at all to help their relationship.

But other than that they refused to talk, at least until they all got seated and began to eat. Since Arthur hardly ever had a chance to eat such sweet, rich tasting home-cooked food, his stomach could only support so much before he slowed down to a nibble. His ears were more effective than radars, listening to their conversation intensely. Once or twice he'd looked over to his father, only to find the man had his eyes trained on a similar pair of sapphire ones. Huh. Maybe this one time, he wasn't just looking at a chicks rack? Arthur gave up on caring, looking back down to his food as he tried to avoid getting anyone's attention.

"So Arthur," Fuck, so much for that hope. The Brit looked up to the woman who was speaking, clearing his throat to show he was listening. "you and Alfred know each other? That's such a relief to hear! I was hoping you two would have known each other from school…" She seemed not to need an answer or reassurance, rather she seemed pleased with the idea they knew each other. Her lips parted, then stopped as her eyes scanned over the punks face. Faint, but there outlines showed bruises on his cheek, the one he tried to keep hidden by turning his head and looking down. "Sweetie? Are those bruises on your face?"

Now it was Alfred's turn to tense up, along with Arthur's father. Both the American teen and the older man glanced at each other as only they noticed their reactions, eyes locking for half of a second. Alfred hastily looked away, slightly rattled with his new discovery- or at least an idea. Arthur glanced from the American to his father, worry welling up in the pit of his belly. No way could Alfred guess about his father's true colors by a simple tense of the shoulders. It was natural for a father to be slightly concerned about bruises on his son, right?

"Oh, um… Yes, but I just fell and hit my cheek, I'm a klutz…" Arthur replied after a seconds thought, a hand subconsciously moving up to touch it, wincing and dropping his hand.

"I saw your hand earlier too, dear. Did you hurt that then as well?" Cynthia asked. It wasn't a hard question, she didn't doubt his answer. She simply was curious.

"Yes ma'am," Arthur sighed, pulling the injured hand out from underneath the table, letting it rest on the napkin he had next to his plate. "I fell down the stairs at school a few days ago… Landed wrong, I s'pose." He filled his mouth with a large bite of the stew to busy himself, and hopefully take the spotlight off of him. It seemed to work, after a brief worry session from the woman, mumbling something about her taking a look at the bruises, she went back to talking to James.

Alfred meanwhile, was looking from Arthur, then to his father. Catching the punk's gaze, he raised an eyebrow at him then smirked. 'Good lying,' he mouthed, taking a sip of his coca-cola. Arthur didn't know whether to reply sarcastically or just roll his eyes, so he opted for doing both.

'Your fault in the first place.' Arthur's lips moved yet no sound came out, and he spared one last almost venomous glance before sipping at his water, his useless hand resting on the table. Alfred's shoulders seemed to slowly slack once he realized he was out of the water, a soft sigh passing his lips. His mother was the one person he refused to let know what he did at school. The way he acted and the people he beat up were his problem, his own secretive meanings. And he would not let his mom worry about them.

Arthur felt a foot slam into his calf and he coughed to cover up a cry of pain, his good hand shooting down to grab at the injured area, eyes snapping over to glare daggers at Alfred. 'What the holy fuck?' He mouthed, rubbing at the area and deeming there would be a new bruise there. Goddamn, just when he was starting to get rid of all those ugly bruises.

'Tell your dad to fuck off and leave my mom alone.' Alfred mouthed, Arthur having to tilt his head to show he didn't understand. Alfred mutely repeated the lip movements, Arthur raising an eyebrow and rolling his eyes.

'Tell your mom to leave my father alone, I can't control the man,' He mouthed back. And it was true, he had no intention of telling his father to back off, he'd already sassed him at the bottom of the stairs. Alfred's mouth formed to a thin line, and he looked back down to his food. It was obvious by his slumped shoulders and frown that he was agitated, but Arthur took a wild guess in saying Alfred and James both knew they couldn't start anything. Cynthia seemed to be the only one who was oblivious to all of the tension between the three, she continued to merrily chat away as their dinners were slowly picked away at.

Half an hour of agonizing silence later, dessert was brought out, although Arthur excused himself up to his room before hand claiming he had homework to do. All he ended up doing though was taking off the black jeans and throwing on a pair of loose sweat pants, also taking off the button up shirt in favor of a large hoodie. He then crawled into his bed, putting in his ear phones and listening to MCR full blast. The room was completely dark, his lamp bulb had died a month ago and he hadn't been able to go buy a new pack of lightbulbs, so he rested in darkness for then.

Arthur had almost managed to fall asleep, until his phone -which had been set on a bedside table- buzzed. Picking it up, he saw a Facebook message from none other than Gilbert, and he smiled lightly. Their conversation was simple, the normal, otherwise boring conversation. But Arthur enjoyed every little emoticon sent his way, chuckling softly at each one as he typed longer replies than needed. He could tell Gilbert was occupied, and about half an hour after they started talking the Prussian admitted, 'Vlad and I are kinda making out… Sorry Art, can I talk to you later?' and Arthur's heart sank.

'Of course! Have fun ;) ' He sent, then tossed his phone across the room with an agitated growl. It wasn't like he still liked Gilbert, but in all honesty, he _really _wanted someone to make out with. As much as he craved being loved and cared for, he also wanted to feel some guy reaching for his belt buckle. God, _any _kind of contact would be great. He'd only had his own hand and videos to survive off of since his two-week summer fling with Gilbert.

"Why the fuck did you throw your phone?" Arthur jumped ten feet into the air as he heard a voice coming from the door, sitting upright and squinting through the partial darkness to see Alfred. Light was flooding in through the door as the American pushed his way in, raising an eyebrow inquisitively at him.

"N-no fucking reason. Why the hell're you up here, Jones?" Arthur snapped back, pulling a blanket around his shoulders and curling up in his bed, still managing a glare. He _so _was not in the mood to get beaten to a bloody pulp at the moment, if he could help it.

"Our parents are making out on the couch." Alfred replied simply, making a 'blegh' sound and sticking out his tongue. Arthur sighed, _'It appears everyone's making out tonight.. Hope Gil's having a good time.'_ Arthur thought sarcastically, sitting up on the bed and leaning up against the wall that was right behind him, still hiding beneath the blanket.

Arthur made a face too at what the other said, chuckling dryly. "At least there's one thing we can agree on," He remarked, "Our parents need to stop seeing each other…"

Alfred shrugged, ignoring common curtesy to ask about moving about in his room, walking over to Arthur's CD collection, grabbing a more common Maroon 5 album and putting it in the player, hitting the play button. "Yeah. I mean, it wouldn't be so bad if he weren't _your _dad… Mom seems pretty happy with him, so I mean…"

"My father's a whore, you'd do well to steer your mother away from him… And I thought you said you liked country music." Arthur changed the subject, glancing over to him with a raised eyebrow.

Alfred said nothing about the comment on Arthur's parent, instead turning away to look at Arthur's impressive CD collection, blocking his blushing face from Arthur's view. "Pfft… I had a friend suggest this band yesterday, so I went home and watched a few of their videos… They don't _totally _suck ass, I guess…"

Arthur snickered, flopping back on the bed and wincing at a pain in his side. "You bloody git, I can tell you looked them up after I told you about them…"

"You British liar! Don't make up things I never said!"

"Oh, so you thought it then?"

"No fucking way! God, why'd I come in here anyways…?"

"Because our parents are sucking their souls out of each other with their mouthes."

"…" Alfred huffed, falling back onto the bed next to Arthur, looking to the ceiling with a frustrated look. His hair was messed up, cowlick bouncing randomly. Arthur's eyes nonchalantly roamed over the other's body, licking his lips as he noticed how the American's shirt had come up. Just enough for him to get a good lick at the delectable curves of his hips, and the well chiseled abs… "How about you not stare at my groin and make this awkward?" Alfred said suddenly.

Arthur rolled his eyes, looking away nonetheless, pretending not to be phased. Shit. Usually he was a pretty subtle starer, though his imagination had got the best of him that time. "You're the one making it awkward doll, I was simply observing."

Alfred 'hump'ed, pulling his shirt down and rolling on his side, facing away from the other. "Whatever, mom said we could leave at ten… I've got like, five minutes. How about you just not try and, like, 'queer'ize me."

"Is that a challenge?" Arthur asked in a teasing tone, before resting his head on a pillow. For the next minute or so, the room was silent, only the two teens slow and calm breathing bouncing off of the walls. Arthur held his blanket to his chest, which was a rather large, torn up thing. It was a faded maroon color, with little bunnies and ducks stitched into it. Call it whatever you will, it'd been his mothers, and she'd gave it to him when he was born. It helped him calm down in even the roughest of days.

"You draw?" Alfred asked out of the blue, sitting up and looking at the drawings all over the walls, sapphire eyes wide as he observed the finely done detail.

"I would think you would have known, with all of my damn drawings you and your crew've ripped up…" Arthur mumbled back with a hint of sarcasm, remembering all the torn drawings that he'd wanted to _kill _someone for destroying. Alfred seemed to ignore this, hopping up and walking over to the ones on the walls, glasses gleaming as he observed the little buttons, and the strings holding them onto the fabric.

Arthur heard a whisper that sounded something like, "Amazing…" but quickly dismissed it as nothing, looking up to the ceiling, hoping Alfred didn't try to destroy something in his room. "Do you draw real people too?" He asked.

"I suppose so. If they're people who don't annoy me." Arthur replied honestly.

"Would you draw me?"

"No."

"Why not?" Alfred questioned, sounding slightly hurt.

"Two reasons. One, you decided it would be wise to break bones in my drawing hand," as if to prove his point he held up the injured hand in the air, "and two, you annoy me."

Alfred frowned and looked at the Brit's hand, opening his mouth and closing it again. "I didn't mean to _break_ anything..." He replied after a moment of thought, keeping his eyes trained on the drawing plastered on the wall in front of him.

"Well you did." Arthur replied in a slightly offended tone, scoffing and rolling over to face away from him, cradling his hurt hand as if it were a fresh wound.

"Sorry." Alfred breathed in response simply, walking over to Arthur's messy, disorganized table. His fingers grazed over the scattered drawings, leafing through them and stacking them all in a pile on the corner of his desk.

Arthur's eyes widened, sitting up and sparing a glance over his shoulder to the other. Alfred, apologizing? He'd never heard of such a thing. The Brit opened his mouth to speak as the door opened and Cynthia-Mrs. Jones, as Arthur had started to call her-walked in.

"Sorry to hold you up dear, we can go now~" She said in the same cheery, singsong tone, smiling over to Alfred. The American looked over to his mother, smiling airily.

"Right.. I'll be right down, one minute." Mrs. Jones nodded and closed the door, leaving the two alone again. Alfred opened his mouth, brows creased as he started to speak, then stopped. After a moment of the two staring at each other, Alfred closed his mouth and walked to the door.

"Goodnight," The blue-eyed teen mumbled, turning off the radio he'd turned on, "Um… See you tomorrow, I guess?"

Arthur sighed, wishing they wouldn't see each other again, but knowing with their parents (and based off of the hickies he'd seen on Mrs. Jones' neck), he doubted they would break up anytime soon. "Yes," he drawled, "See you tomorrow, Alfred."

* * *

Surprisingly enough, the weekend went by well, more than that even. Arthur was fed by his father once a day, and while that didn't sound great in retrospect, but for someone like Arthur who was fed once in a fortnight, food was a blessing. Especially considering the fact that his father hadn't yelled or scolded him once. He had to wonder what was going through that man's head, why he was so... different, than usual. Not to say that he was nice or kind on any means, but he certainly restrained from physically hurting the other. Arthur had come up with the conclusion that his father was trying to keep bruises off of his son, so Cynthia didn't suspect anything.

Mrs. Jones and Alfred had come over once more on Saturday night, though Arthur played sick to avoid talking to any of them. When he heard Alfred walk up the steps and knock on his door, he simply let out a soft and fake snore to convince the other he was asleep. Finally Monday rolled around and for the first time in years, Arthur felt a bit more hopeful about going to school.

As he woke up earlier in the morning, Arthur pulled up a pair of dark grey skinny jeans and slid a studded black belt through the loops, having to tie it tighter than usual. He glanced to his pale, almost concaving stomach with a soft sigh. Despite the food he'd eaten over the weekend, he was still paler and skinnier than a normal teenager should be. And it wasn't getting any better, yet he couldn't bring himself to care. Arthur next pulled on a Black Veil Brides short-sleeved shirt, grabbing a black jacket and tossing it on over just for warmths sake. Next he pulled on all of his wrist bands, sucking lightly on his tongue ring thoughtlessly as he did so, being careful not to hit his injured fingers by doing so.

And off to school he went, after lining his eyes with a black eyeliner pencil, of course. No point in boring you with details on his day, it seemed that the team was almost wear of him. As he walked from class to class, even if he ran into a jock they'd just glare at him, before skirting off to go do something else. All in all, the entire _week_ passed without as much as a new scratch or bruise. Arthur wasn't sure whether or not to be worried or happy about this. On one hand, everyone had realized he was a human being with feelings and they'd backed the fuck off. But on the other hand, some jock with a pea-sized brain was planning some fucked up shit to do to him.

By the next Friday evening, the bruises on Arthur's body had all but healed completely. His fingers, while they hurt to bend, had been freed from the makeshift cast and were now being used again. Arthur still had a one hour limit on drawing though, because whenever he tried to hold his fingers in such a tedious and steady position, they cramped and hurt and it sucked _balls_.

Mrs. Jones and his father, to his greatest displeasure, had been only getting a stronger relationship. He couldn't tell if his father simply liked the woman for her figure, or something else. It wouldn't be hard after all, she was a sweet, kind, good-cooking lady who seemed to see through the foul man that was his father. Nonetheless, he worried about the whole scenario. Not only because Cynthia would get hurt if they broke up, but Alfred would be mad. And if Alfred got mad, he'd take it out on Arthur. Arthur could already imagine Alfred being beyond pissed off, enough so to purposely break his fingers again.

It was colder than usual that day on his way home from school, and he found himself jogging lightly, already thinking about the Sherlock marathon he planned on having that night. Oh, the thought of hot tea (the cheap, bagged stuff he'd managed to get his hands on earlier on in the week) and an oversized, fluffy blanket that Cynthia had left over was simply too divine to ignore. But when he hopped up the creaking, close-to-snapping stairs of his front porch, Arthur instantly realized something was wrong; terribly, terribly wrong.

The house, which had been surrounded by a nonexistent forcefield of happiness for the past week or so, had snapped. The grass on the lawn looked deader than usual, the paint chipping off of the front door was worse, rough and splintering to the touch. Although nothing was _off_, per-say, but Arthur instantly _knew _he shouldn't go back in that house. But where else could he go? After a brief glance to the poorly parked car in the garage, the Brit shoved his key into the creaking lock, having to shoulder open the door. He coughed as the overwhelming smell of alcohol hit him like a train, and he stepped outside of the house for a good moment. Good _lord_, he'd forgotten how foul that smell was. It stung his eyes, made it painful to breathe.

After inhaling a deep breath of the now sweet smelling outside air, Arthur stepped inside and closed the door, having to make sure he didn't step on a vodka bottle. The floorboards creaked more than normal, and he glanced to the stair steps. Even they seemed further down the hall than normal, it seemed like one of those nightmares where if he tried to run towards them, they'd only get further and further away.

"Sir?" Arthur called out in a hesitant voice, walking in the opposite option of the steps, going into the living room instead. He retched in surprise and disgust as a thicker smell caught him by surprise. '_I didn't think it was possible for a house to smell so bad in one day,' _He thought, looking through the dark, damp seeming room. The faded blue curtains were messily yanked over the cracked windows, only letting little slivers of grey light in. The TV was on, but it was the silent eery static that Arthur really despised. Arthur jumped suddenly as he heard the old ottoman's chair in the corner creak, and he looked over to see his father slowly standing up. "O-oh, I didn't see you..." He said in an almost panicked tone, not able to see anything other than a dark silhouette of what he presumed to be his father.

The man was slumping, beard seeming more unshaved than usual as he clung to an empty clouded bottle in his right hand. "You..." His father hissed, hiccuping as he took a stumbling step forwards.

At the same time, Arthur stepped back, eyes widening a bit as he glanced to the stairs. "Are you alright, sir?" He asked, clearing his throat and attempting to make light of the conversation by picking up a bottle or two off of the floor. "It's not very clean in here, Cynthia won't be please... Why don't I clean this u-"

"Don't you _dare_ mention her name... This-this is _your _fault!" His father's voice suddenly raised into a screech, as he seemed to come to a false conclusion. Arthur stumbled back suddenly, the empty bottles falling out of his hands and onto the floor with a loud clashing sound.

"What-!? No, I didn't-" Arthur's eyes widened as something flew through the air, realizing it was the bottle his father had been holding onto a mere second before it came into rough contact with his forehead. Arthur let out a short, cut-off shriek in both surprise and pain, before his body slumped to the floor and the world went black.


End file.
